Coloratura
by kusegoto
Summary: Short drabble collection, including various AUs though mostly alongside canon. Exploring the relationship potential between the Deathsinger and the Crimson Reaper. Rated M for potential NSFW.
1. whisper

Upon the Isles, in the darkest corners of what once pulsated with low, steady life - there hide spirits. They speak in low tones, hushed fragments of their once-lives under the pin of their tongues. Distantly, like he's having trouble connecting to the ground, earth, reality around him, he tries to listen. Find the fragments of their whispers that he can take apart, put together. Make something of them.

It's not a story he _wants_ to hear, but it's a story he'd put together to pass the time. The wailing of the dead overwhelm him eventually.

Vladimir asks if they always do that. Repeat themselves under empty breaths until the end of existence. He is told, without purpose, that is all they will do, and all the can do. They linger in the Mist, trapped in the memory of who they were before the curse came upon them.

There hangs wisps and plumes of sea-green light around them. Vladimir reaches a hand up, like he's trying to curl his clawed fingers around one. "Can you control them, then?"

Karthus tentatively mirrors Vladimir's hand. Separated by soft light, cool on both their palms. The light drifts away, catching other wisps - the mist blends and shifts and moves for them, and the whispers become a choir, coalesced into the requiem.

Vladimir lowers his hand down, into the lich. He holds it, a half smile over him. Music. Something to fill the silence.


	2. moonlight

The sun does not rise upon the Shadow Isles.

It is an everlasting shadow of night - though the sky may lighten and darken, and the moon may be shrouded by clouds, never does the sun's light find the rotten earth and cold water. The illusion of time is quickly forgotten, in days spent that meld together. One might read a book for long hours at a time, yet elsewhere in the world - a place beyond the altered reality of the land of the dead - it has been only minutes.

Vladimir doesn't _miss_ sunlight. It's just strange to be without it.

So is it why he lays upon an old wooden bench, outside of the Deathsinger's hollow church. He cannot imagine how long it must have stood - nor how it supports his full weight, his whole body laying down on the plank of wood. It is a distance from the building itself - yet his absence has drawn his host toward him.

"Are you well?" Karthus asks, obstructing Vladimir's vision of the sky.

The hood of his robes serves as a cushion. He can feel it against his scalp as he nods.

"I'm watching the moon," he replies. Swinging himself up, he feels the wood creak under him. "Sit. Behind me."

Tentatively, Karthus does so. His body is not meant to bend, it seems - it shows in how he lowers himself to the ground, and struggles with bending his knees to rest on the bench. Vladimir turns his head back and him, and feels a laugh behind his teeth. He smiles something short, instead, then lays back down, head in his lap.

As it is meant to be, Karthus' hand threads through Vladimir's hair. Karthus is thin. But his lap is comforting. Better than hard wood.

The moon is directly above them. It halos Karthus' head as he looks down at him.


	3. alone

He sits in silence. As silent as his estate can be - not a body moves, not a breath is taken, not an eye is closed. He tries to find silence. But the song is still there.

It is not a _harmful_ song - though silence is rare, it is a hymn in a language that sounds of his own yet has enough _antique_ to its words that he finds himself unable to follow it. Words of worship, praise and calling reach out to him - like the call to prayer, an ushering of pilgrims to return.

The song sits in Vladimir's mind, crowning him. It is somewhere. No one around him can hear it.

He stands near his bedroom's balcony, staring at the open window. There, he hears it again - beckoning him forward, in a direction that pulls, draws, reaches for his wrists in yearning. With one step, he shifts towards the balcony -

And like a match lit, that movement alone _excites_ something. He takes another step, curious. The flame swells.

Over the balcony, he listens. Sitting on the stone ledge with his back to Noxus' rooftops and streets. Listening to something he cannot see. Waiting for something he can only hear.

It leaves him haunted.

Like the memory of someone he has never met. Cut through the chest and eclipsing the heart.


	4. nocturnal

As he already knows, 'night' and 'day' do not exist in the land of the dead. Yet as he feels the crawl of day, so does he feel the sun drift below its horizon and welcome the moon to the sky.

He maintains a routine - it keeps him steady, gives him things to do. A _clock_ is surprisingly difficult to come across in a land of desolation and rot - so he keeps time with his activities. Time melts together, like ice in heat. Fingers weaving together. Vladimir spends his time in meditation, in books he salvages, in the choir's heart. When he rests, body on a bed he's certain will collapse some time, he rests for a while.

Without a tool for time, he can't tell what time it is when he wakes. His routine is not much for keeping track of _days._

Vladimir finds Karthus, haunting the halls, hands reaching for his Choir. The church has become a home - its halls are simple. The doors are closed, yet he has discovered all that lays beyond. He is welcomed among the spirits, and they are at ease when Karthus is beside him.

"You were resting for some time," the lich says. "Do you still _require_ sleep?"

"I don't think so," Vladimir responds, "It just gives me something to do. Don't want to spend every waking moment reading." He leans a shoulder against the stone wall. "I'd run out of things to read."

Karthus remains elevated in the air. Vladimir notes the difference in their height, when he slouches to his left and Karthus remains aloft. He grins something amused up at him.

"You know, I'd stay up late and sleep in the day."

"That sounds to be terribly inefficient, given mortal preference for activity during daylight hours."

"It wasn't that bad. Gave me privacy." Vladimir stands properly once more. "I suppose the night sky here makes it all the more _homey_."


	5. fly

"Show me how."

"Show you how… to… what?"

"Float. Fly. How do you do that? Do you have to _really_ focus?"

Of course he asked. He's always looking for more, looking to become more.

It doesn't require a terrible amount of space. Truly, Karthus could have done this with him inside, spared the toxins of the Mist and alone in the brick. But Vladimir eyes the pulpits and the pews nervously - like he'd knock into them, if it was even possible.

So he has him near the wooden bench, where they spend their evenings in thought, with one another. Karthus' legs ache each time he sits. But it is for him.

Quietly, and expectingly, Vladimir looks up at him. Karthus estimates they are possibly of the same height - it is with Vladimir on the ground and Karthus in the air that a height difference pronounces itself. There is at least one foot between them.

Karthus holds his hands out. Vladimir reaches up to hold them. They both have claws, sharp and cold like bone. Carefully, Karthus moves his hands to Vladimir's wrists -

and pulls him up, effortlessly.

The other _yells_ something charmingly uncharacteristic. Immediately he clings to the lich, digging his fingers into the dark coloured tones and pulls himself in. His feet kick for solid ground, and _fearfully,_ he presses his knees into Karthus', holding one of his legs between his own.

Vladimir is looking down at the ground. They are hardly a foot off it.

"You will not fall, Vladimir."

" _Warn_ me when you're going to do this."

"I did not expect you to experience such an intense reaction." One of Karthus' hands drift up the length of Vladimir's arm, curling over his shoulder. He can feel his partner tense as he moves his hand, the arm he once held pressing into the bone-thin side of Karthus, elbow first. Afraid he's going to fall.

Tepidly, he relaxes. Bothered, he looks up. His hood has slid off his head, white hair revealed. He blinks sea green eyes at Karthus.

"This isn't really showing me," he says, with enough humour in his tone that even Karthus notes he's at ease, "You just wanted me up here."

Karthus laughs something light.

"Perhaps I prefer you at my side when you are elevated."


	6. leave

**A** **/N:** this is a modern au.

* * *

He's starting to think coming was a mistake.

The DuCouteau mansion is, for all of its hosts' faults, impressive. It is three floors of beautiful stonework, large windows, and rooms void of clutter yet decorated with expensive furniture and paintings. The sisters themselves do not match the grand beauty of their estate - whatever elegance they present is betrayed by their own vile nature. Katarina is brutal; Cassiopeia is venomous. Even their brother, though sparsely seen, harbours a contempt for those he doesn't want to associate with.

Their basement is finished - even in the shadow of the first stair, Karthus can tell this much. But he took refuge at the door itself, resting his arms on his knees - descending the stairs is unnecessary. He can rest here.

The door opens. Karthus turns his head to look up, and in the doorway is Vladimir.

"I've been looking for you," he says. Without prompt, Karthus moves to the side to allow him to sit next to him, the door closing behind them. They are swathed in darkness, the thin stream of light from under the door hardly illuminating anything at all. The back of Vladimir's hand touches Karthus. Karthus reaches two fingers back, hooking them with Vladimir's.

There is quiet.

"Sorry," the other then says, leaning a little more into Karthus, "I don't think you're enjoying it here."

"I am fine," Karthus responds. "I have not been harmed by the company you have introduced me to. We simply…"

With a little more shifting of his hand, Karthus now holds Vladimir's.

"… do not bond well, I suppose."

He wants to look at him. He tries to, looking through the darkness for the shape of him, but the shying light from under the door cannot illuminate him. But - he knows how he sits. He knows how his eyes look. Vladimir turns their hands, and weaves their fingers together.

"We can leave when you want. I believe I've satisfied my socialization quota for the evening."

"You are far too considerate of my comfort."

"I mean," Vladimir says with the shade of some kind of laugh, leaning into him, "I don't want to be around Katarina longer than I have to be, either."

Karthus smiles. Tentatively, with a hesitation one could only mark in the light, he returns his motion, resting his head on Vladimir's shoulder.

"In time," he replies, "I wish to sit by your side until we must depart."


	7. languid

**A/N:** this is a modern au.

* * *

His bed is _very_ warm.

In the haze of morning, with the sun peering through slotted blinds over the apartment's windows, a gentle glow rolls across Vladimir as he remains half under black, heavy blankets. He has been awake for thirty minutes, curled against a body he's been keeping warm.

Karthus' bed has no raised frame. It sits upon a boxspring with unwashed sheets ( he is _going_ to have to clean these some time, Vladimir passingly notes with a hint of horrified amusement ) with a thin sheet as a comforter. It is far more firm than his own, one with a plush foam that keeps the shape of his body for the coming night. Thick, heavy blankets. A plethora of pillows. Karthus only owns two.

One is shared between them, currently. The other rests against Vladimir's back, cushioning the wall. He curls into Karthus' chest.

He's very thin. Vladimir has his ear over his heart, and his eyes closed - but he is awake.

"Do you have any intention of waking?" Karthus asks, thick with sleep, murmured into his head.

"I'm awake," comes Vladimir's response. "I just don't feel like getting up."

Even if his bed is more firm, more small - Vladimir has grown used to it. He _loves_ it.


	8. forest

Deep in the centermost island, the altars remain cold.

Spirits do not linger around them for long. Wisps and apparitions may pass through, in their moments of clarity where they understand where they are - yet if you listen to their song, you will hear their agitation; their remorse; their lament of what lays deep in the altar well. They walk stone pathways that weave around a thicket of trees - and if they do not sing, then they are silent. It is a still place.

There is no threat in those wells. Only souls buried, long before either of their times. Both have steel grates over them, and they are separated by a length of old stone. To shapeless, lesser spirits, it feels wrong to be there.

Vladimir likes the stone balcony, carved out of a white stone that looks over the path of trees. Somewhere, past the treeline, there is something in the shape of a castle.

"We passed through here at first when Elise brought us here," Vladimir says. "Her god's temple is somewhere to the north."

"It does not leave its temple," Karthus reminds him. "Surely, it does not know you are here."

Vladimir tests the stone on one of the steps. He chooses to walk most days, still. Something grounding. He has Karthus' hand in his and leads him down. "I'd rather not risk making it even angrier. I hate spiders a lot."

Something rustles a bush in the openings to the forest. Karthus can feel Vladimir's nails press into his skin, even through the cold. He smiles something simple.

"Long ago," Karthus begins, following his partner through the trees, off the cobbled stone and into patches of blackened dirt and treaded earth, "this served as a park for the officials of the Isles. At the bottom of these wells was a river, covered for observation and safety."

"What's down there now?" Vladimir asks. Through the trees, in the depth of the woods, Karthus can hear the forgotten song of a sickness that brought ruination.

"Dead spirits," Karthus says, as they come upon the west altar.

It is pale with age. Sun has not worn the colour, yet a millennia of wasting has brought the brass accents to dull and vines to weave through it. A mist, light blue, emits from the grave, and the Choir cannot sing over the hymn that rises from far below - the lament of the lost.

Karthus glances down at Vladimir, who watches the altar with a deep interest. He brings the other's hood down, pulling free his white hair, and catching his attention.

Karthus weaves two fingers through a lock of his hair, bringing it over his long fingers.

"To forever remain adrift through the Mist, with only your lover by your side - it is a beautiful way to die."


	9. candlelight

No light draws from the sun upon the isles. Therefore, Vladimir must bring light from elsewhere.

Though the islands are all shadowed by night, there is an otherworldly glow that follows the land and stone, colouring his surroundings with a blue shade that carries the memory of green. He can see red in old tapestries, brown in ancient leather tomes, the white stone pillars that shape the church's exterior - still, sea blue colours the surrounding island. It is a light that allows him some vision around him. Even he knows his eyes have become accustomed to the Mist.

He doesn't realize how cold the islands really are until he lights the first match. The wax candles are ancient. and while the flames catch from the flint he worries the wicks will not hold the light - he is slow in lighting the first few candles he brings to caged lanterns against the walls just to be sure. It's when he's moved confidently to the candles by a table that his company is joined by the one who owns this church.

Karthus is silent - inquisitive, curious, yet silent, watching him light each candle, counting the seconds between holding the light and moving from the growing flame. Vladimir admits he does not know if he is summoning some ritual to perform - if the church's secret is buried in ancient wax and old stone, if he's igniting a sermon itself by bringing a little light to read next to. It's fun to guess the expressions of the dead sometimes - when Karthus isn't stoic, watching and waiting, he's rather emotive. Raising his brow and smiling something sinister, something simple, something handsome.

There's a candle holder he finds on one of the tables, the second one he lights as Karthus shadows him. The room glows with a golden hue, framed by the soft light that remains still in the haunting chambers - flickering in a wind that does not exist, steady upon their light. Vladimir takes one of the thin candles and places it in, fetching the materials he's collected to ignite, and lights it.

He lifts it between them, like the forge. Anywhere else in the world, it would be just a light - but in the land of the dead he feels the heat so vividly, like there's nothing else in the world like it, a mark of survival, and comfort, and silence, and mystery, and curiosity - all at once.

Vladimir has it in his right hand. He lifts his left towards Karthus, almost hesitant. With a push off the ground, he finds the footing he needs to hover, matching his height.

He catches on quick.

He kisses Karthus by candlelight.


	10. court

"When we... met," Vladimir begins, considering the words he means, "did you _mean_ to call out for me?"

Karthus glances up, from the features of Vladimir's jaw to his inquisitive stare, with a thoughtful one of his own. The skeletal hand he has against Vladimir's neck moves up, thumb finding his jawline and gently - if rather rigid - touching him. He mirrors affection that he has learnt from Vladimir himself - the acts themselves long lost on his memory, distant in time for him.

The Song no longer lingers in Vladimir's thoughts, as it sings around him in the Mist instead. It is like a mourning veil that follows Karthus, as the moon follows the cast of shadow. Yet still, Vladimir recalls when it lingered deep inside of his mind, an echo that filled the silence of his home in Noxus. A song distant, woven into the hum and sigh of mist - far off like a horizon, a setting sun. It sat inside of him. It _lingered_. It drew him in the direction of the Isles, and to silence it, he had to follow.

"The Mist's arrival to Noxus was not in your name," Karthus speaks, slowly, working through his thoughts. His voice sounds - thin, like it is filtered through that shadow that he speaks in. "I only came upon you when I arrived."

"That isn't what I mean, necessarily." Karthus' hand, though skeletal and cold, is still a comfort on his jaw. Vladimir leans into his hand, reciprocating his attempts at romantic gestures. He is warm in hisbintent only, but that's enough for Vladimir. Like candlelight. "Rather - when you saw me. Or were around me, whatever had put the Song in my head. Did you mean to do that? Did you _want_ me?"

Karthus' expression is unreadable, some sort of surprise and thoughtful question. He _is_ intending his words. "You had interested me. Often, I judge the mortals I am in the presence of rather easily. I wished to speak to you."

"You didn't recognize me when I arrived, though."

"I did not _see_ you when I had met you. It was as if I had recognized your spirit. I had the Choir search for you." Karthus reaches forward into the hood, to the back of his throat. Vladimir notes that's what he does when he touches Karthus himself. He bites back the smile pushing at his mouth. "As well, you were hooded."

" _Search_ for me," Vladimir repeats, "So you _did_ want me."

Karthus' expression neutrals to something affectionate. He draws Vladimir closer, arm over his waist. The hand on his neck draws to the front, tipping Vladimir's chin up to look at Karthus closely. A possessive act. He is _his_ \- held close in the arms of death. "Yes. I _wanted_ you. Yet, in doing so, I did not anticipate that I would _have_ you as I do now."

Vladimir draws his fingers through the threadbare robes over Karthus' shoulders. He smiles something warm, and laughs, lowly. "Darling," he tries, feeling the heat in his throat as he says that. He draws his finger over Karthus' chest, tracing a shape where his dead heart would be. It's much easier to embrace him when he is without those antiquated pauldrons and that steel plate. Perhaps he will tell him this sometime "You are _very_ romantic, I'll have you know."

"Am I?" he asks, tipping his head to the left. "I have made a great attempt to learn. I wish to earn your favour, dearest."

Vladimir watches him for a moment, before leaning forward, kissing him deeply. "You already have."


	11. clothing

**A/N:** modern au. warning for mild sexual content, mostly just heavy flirting and implications.

* * *

Vladimir holds the shirt, unfolding it into his lap. He glances down its front, to the axe shaped guitar eclipsing an iron helmet.

He hadn't _planned_ to spend the evening at Karthus' apartment - it was only by chance he spent the afternoon into the evening without his car. And even if it's shared with two others, it's of a decent size. He's not one for his roommates in particular. One of them is in Karthus' band, the one this shirt belongs to.

It's difficult to say he finds himself in Karthus' bedroom whenever he visits without any _implications_ getting in the way of his words. This time, it's only because he's getting dressed. He picked up the black shirt without realizing it wasn't one of his own he had left until he unfolded it. The new implication of putting it on doesn't hit him until it's over his head and he catches himself in the mirror on the wall.

The shirt fits him. Rather well, even with the height Karthus has on him. He supposes it's the weight difference between them. It's clean, even with being crumpled in the heap of clothing on Karthus' floor. He reflects on how Karthus looks in this shirt as he brings up the collar to his face to breathe it in deeply.

Karthus is rain at night. He is slept in bedsheets. He is the memory of smoke, the warmth he can feel in the dead of winter. This shirt is made of a soft cotton. The proximity of it to the bed makes Vladimir believe Karthus probably slept in this last night. Vladimir isn't shy to the idea of sleeping in less tonight, but there's a warmth to wearing your other half's clothes, and that reality is pushing at his thoughts.

The door, already open, opens wider to allow entry. Vladimir's hands slip from the collar, looking up. First, he smiles nervously, but then his eyes narrow, lidded, and turns a little coy when he realizes how Karthus is watching him.

Karthus' mouth is closed shut, with all of the notion and humour of someone stunned to silence. He's holding a mug of coffee in the mug Vladimir has indirectly claimed for himself whenever he spends the night. Karthus looks between the band shirt and the boy wearing it, blinking slowly.

"That is my shirt," he states.

"I was going to sleep in it," Vladimir replies, "Do you mind if I do?"

It takes Karthus a moment to respond. Vladimir finds himself smirking. He likes to think it stalls Karthus some more. "Of course you may."

Vladimir crosses the room, stopping short of Karthus. He reaches for his free wrist, pulling Karthus into his bedroom some more. There's not much space that isn't marked by clutter, but Karthus puts the mug down somewhere on a short dresser. Vladimir notes Karthus' wrist is easy to move, his body easy to guide, like he's entranced. There's a part of him glad he's overthinking this, too. With free arms, Vladimir slips his arms up over Karthus' neck, hooking them around and pulling him close.

"Forgive me," Karthus murmurs, close to Vladimir's face, his own hands finding his hips, as they always do. "Your decision is simply unexpected. I had believed you would sleep bare, as you have before."

Vladimir laughs lowly, pulling his face closer to kiss him, deeply. "I like how you keep talking when you think I look hot."

It is Karthus' turn to laugh, low and warm, smiling against him. His hands slide up Vladimir's back, keeping him close, embraced. "Would you rather I _silently_ lavish and tend over you?"

"I like how vocal you get," he replies, leaning himself back and pulling Karthus with him, arching his back into him. His mouth remains curled into a smile, eyes narrowed. "Did you _want_ me to sleep 'bare'? Is that what you're getting at?"

His hands roam a little further, seeking nothing in particular, only fingers pressing into him with a wanting search. Vladimir moves against him, allowing Karthus' hands to weaken and unravel him. Karthus watches him with a revered stare, eyes soft but remaining on his face, trailing down to his neck, mouth, jaw. "You have spoiled me on this sight of you." One of Vladimir's hands pulls back from around Karthus' neck, cupping the side of his face. "If you - would, I would have you still clothed, should we -"

He _loves_ how he stalls his words to not stammer. "I'll keep the shirt on if you keep touching me like that."

Karthus hasn't any time to respond, for Vladimir kisses him again, and pushes him towards their bed.


	12. mist

The Mist chills the air. It drains the spirit and life from the land, seeking the warmth it is denied within the veil of the Shadow Isles. It covets the living and culls their souls, poisoning the earth and possessing the bodies caught between it. Noxus is a powerful nation with walls made of stone, and stone cannot stop the Mist, and the way it rots the ground and stales the air.

Karthus remembers the streets he haunts. A distant memory of a church, a set of streets, a life set to rot and waste away in squalor. His mortal memory was cast off long ago when he shed a coil made of flesh and ascended in the Mist, awakening to the possibilities beyond life and cresting the horizon of death. Only in the streets of his former life as an elevated spectre does he wonder how he may have found the beauty of the Mist, had he lived to see it draw over Noxus.

It now follows him. It is a mourning veil that sweeps the streets, a wailing choir that casts across the dead and seeks scraps of soul to devour. Karthus moves himself down the stretch of cobbled road, following the cadence of the Choir. In the shadow of death, he finds his melodic peace, even with the chaos and calamity of what humans refer to as the Harrowing carving itself through the streets of a great empire. That is how, and why, the tug of curious spirits draw him free of his meditative state and towards a living, active presence. A soul set alight.

There is a light, and he follows it.

He hovers down a street and feels the fury of many in a moment's time, like fire that can scorch the Mist's very shape. There are three mortal bodies, yet there is a congregation surrounding them, as if there were not three but one hundred, all close together and escaping the dark Mist. The futility of their action does not come to him as he draws nearer to the force that has his curiosity.

The Mist surrounds him as he rounds a building's corner, meeting three mortal men abruptly. They wear the clothing of Noxian nobility, and halt in the presence of the Deathsinger. One draws a pistol before their breathing can stall, and fires towards the lich, the bullet ripping through Mist and dead flesh yet marking nothing on him. Karthus feels no pain, no tear in his shoulder, as he watches, drawing the Choir towards him. The fog grows more dense as his spirits draw forth.

There is only one that keeps his attention. The man with the pistol and his cowardly companion, who hides behind the one that radiates too many lives, do not register for long in the Deathsinger's vast mind. The one whose stare burns Karthus, eyes as white as his hair and a pretty profile cut when he turns his head back. A beautiful man who houses a force Karthus cannot fathom.

He cannot parse what of this mortal man may cause such a strong reaction within the Mist, yet the souls of the Choir pull toward the souls of his mind, crooning for the ones buried in seas or bloody knowledge.

Karthus ponders. Is he a vessel of souls? A mage, certainly. The mortal - though perhaps not much of a mortal at all - pulls back with his companions, teeth bared and grit. They last only seconds in each other's company before the man with the pistol darts down an adjacent road, leading the cowardly man and the Deathsinger's muse away. Surely, they are fleeing the Mist. Or perhaps they are seeking other nobles to assist in their evacuation of the capital.

 _That one_. The one of a thousand screams.

Karthus summons forth his Choir to attention. He casts his hand in the direction they flee, and a mass of Mist runs after them, howling the dirge. Karthus can feel it surround the bodies once more, and then plunge through the man of many souls. The Song holds him.

The man does not stumble, but does feel a strange chill. Karthus can feel him move further and further away. He knows not to follow. He wishes very much for his muse to withstand the city's assault.

He wants the Song to grow within his mind. He wants the Song to lead him towards the Choir, towards him.

He wants him.

Come to me.


	13. heart

The Mist chills the air. It drains the spirit and life from the land, seeking the warmth it is denied within the veil of the Shadow Isles. It covets the living and culls their souls, poisoning the earth and possessing the bodies caught between it. Noxus is a powerful nation with walls made of stone, and stone cannot stop the Mist, and the way it rots the ground and stales the air.

Karthus remembers the streets he haunts. A distant memory of a church, a set of streets, a life set to rot and waste away in squalor. His mortal memory was cast off long ago when he shed a coil made of flesh and ascended in the Mist, awakening to the possibilities beyond life and cresting the horizon of death. Only in the streets of his former life as an elevated spectre does he wonder how he may have found the beauty of the Mist, had he lived to see it draw over Noxus.

It now follows him. It is a mourning veil that sweeps the streets, a wailing choir that casts across the dead and seeks scraps of soul to devour. Karthus moves himself down the stretch of cobbled road, following the cadence of the Choir. In the shadow of death, he finds his melodic peace, even with the chaos and calamity of what humans refer to as the Harrowing carving itself through the streets of a great empire. That is how, and why, the tug of curious spirits draw him free of his meditative state and towards a living, active presence. A soul set alight.

There is a light, and he follows it.

He hovers down a street and feels the fury of many in a moment's time, like fire that can scorch the Mist's very shape. There are three mortal bodies, yet there is a congregation surrounding them, as if there were not three but one hundred, all close together and escaping the dark Mist. The futility of their action does not come to him as he draws nearer to the force that has his curiosity.

The Mist surrounds him as he rounds a building's corner, meeting three mortal men abruptly. They wear the clothing of Noxian nobility, and halt in the presence of the Deathsinger. One draws a pistol before their breathing can stall, and fires towards the lich, the bullet ripping through Mist and dead flesh yet marking nothing on him. Karthus feels no pain, no tear in his shoulder, as he watches, drawing the Choir towards him. The fog grows more dense as his spirits draw forth.

There is only one that keeps his attention. The man with the pistol and his cowardly companion, who hides behind the one that radiates too many lives, do not register for long in the Deathsinger's vast mind. The one whose stare burns Karthus, eyes as white as his hair and a pretty profile cut when he turns his head back. A beautiful man who houses a force Karthus cannot fathom.

He cannot parse what of this mortal man may cause such a strong reaction within the Mist, yet the souls of the Choir pull toward the souls of his mind, crooning for the ones buried in seas or bloody knowledge.

Karthus ponders. Is he a vessel of souls? A mage, certainly. The mortal - though perhaps not much of a mortal at all - pulls back with his companions, teeth bared and grit. They last only seconds in each other's company before the man with the pistol darts down an adjacent road, leading the cowardly man and the Deathsinger's muse away. Surely, they are fleeing the Mist. Or perhaps they are seeking other nobles to assist in their evacuation of the capital.

He wants him.

Karthus summons forth his Choir to attention. He casts his hand in the direction they flee, and a mass of Mist runs after them, howling the dirge. Karthus can feel it surround the bodies once more, and then plunge through the man of many souls. The Song holds him.

The man does not stumble, but does feel a strange chill. Karthus can feel him move further and further away. He knows not to follow. He wishes very much for his muse to withstand the city's assault.

He wants the Song to grow within his mind. He wants the Song to lead him towards the Choir, towards him.

Come to me.


	14. camera

"What is a _camera_?"

Vladimir's hands, once in motion with a half gesture, take pause. He stares up at Karthus, and as the epiphany hits him, his eyes widen.

"Oh. It's... it's able to take pictures," he tries, bringing his hands back in. "Or, it... _how do I explain_ , it's... something people use to take the image of something and preserve it."

Karthus does that _thing_ he does, where he tips his head to the side and the brittle hair that slips from his mitre's hood moves with him. "Does that not already exist with the practise of painting?"

"Yes," Vladimir replies, bringing one hand up to scratch the back of his neck, under his own hood. "But painting takes a long time. It can take hours. Or _days_. A camera takes it in a matter of minutes."

"Impossible," Karthus states, and doesn't take note of how Vladimir laughs, short and under his breath. "Is a 'camera' an individual, or a tool?"

"Tool, I suppose?" Vladimir turns his head towards the wall of the church - a distance from the bench he has helped Karthus and himself upon. Candles lit with soulfire line the wall, a painting older than the church itself upon its surface.

"Look over there - a camera could capture that wall's image. And after you let the image set, it would show up on the paper it was printed on. The development of the picture is kind of like painting it, only its done inside the camera."

Vladimir has a suspicious feeling Karthus cannot comprehend a word he's telling him.

"It's a miniature painter inside of a small box."

"They must be rare practitioners of their craft. I cannot fathom that there are men of such impossible size, en masse."

"No- darling, I'm _joking_."


	15. skin

_**A/N:**_ _warning for sexual content._

* * *

His hands are gentle, but they are not soft.

When Karthus' hands are upon Vladimir, the century he has spent beyond the land of the living is at its most apparent - his fingers are not human, talons grazing up the flanks of Vladimir's arms and waist when he leads him along, showing him where to press the tips of his nails and the flat of his fingers into. His skin is dry, coarse to touch, and feel _rough_ against Vladimir's much more smoother, much more paler skin.

The rot of a century's death lingers in his skin's colour. Kissing him anywhere but his unwelcoming mouth is dry, tasteless, and reminds Vladimir of ash.

But he wants to touch him. His touch - however sharp, coarse, cold - is a soft one, moving like the way he conducts the Mist, guided by Vladimir and then left to roam up his sides, under his cloak and against his spine. It is one of the rare times Karthus will allow himself to be seated so casually, allowing Vladimir to show him where he wants to be - his lap, close, holding his face while Karthus finds the corners and spots that make him breathe a little louder.

( The _other way_ , the _human_ way, of going about physical intimacy, doesn't work. Vladimir was disappointed. He pulled Karthus in all the same and told him to _touch_. )

Karthus regards his lover with a deep curiosity - a wonder to how even in death, something warm glows beneath Vladimir's skin. He tugs and pulls at the deep crimson robes over Karthus' shoulders when he finds the dip of his thighs, and watches Karthus with open eyes and a silent eagerness when he starts to press against what he wants. Angling himself inward. Whispering as quiet as the Mist, saying his name.

What feels like pleasure builds in Karthus, though not how it might in someone still so rooted in his human desires. A sense of wonder. A longing to fulfill him. A desire to become more, woven together in the shadow of the islands.

Vladimir's hands are up in the hood of Karthus' robe. He holds the back of his head, through his thin and brittle hair, and he lolls his eyes and head back when Karthus grips between his legs firmly. He says something like encouragement, pulling his lover close and against his neck. He doesn't require breath, yet still he breathes like Karthus has stolen it.

One arm slides around Vladimir's waist, pulling his hips in. He's learning. Vladimir sighs a beautiful melody as he does.


	16. quote

_**A/N:** this was taken from a sentence prompt that was sent to me on my writing blog, this is written mostly as a response drabble, so it might feel a little different from the other updates. sorry about how updates have been mostly frequent, but this one took a while!_

-

 _"We look terrible to you, severe, and you see our blood flying."_

 _\- Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless_

-

There's a deep distance between Karthus and mortals. Separate between life and death, existing with its in-betweens and devout mystery - the horror of being alive is a distant memory to him, even when he reaches forward to raise the souls from the living.

A lich is a lich. It is neither dead nor alive, no matter how its body may rot.

On the Isles, life's essence is drained deep from the bodies washed ashore, no matter how long they've been dead - what should be suspended in time rots away, and bone comes out, and skin begins to wither, and blood begins to dry. There is no memory of life when the Isles have their way with a body So viciously _different_ from humanity.

"Humanity's shallow existence must bother you," Vladimir says.

"Not at all," he admits, a century of reflection caught on his words like a hook in the cheek. Blood allows the body to function. Without magic, a dead body cannot pump blood - perhaps that is how the Isles turn your veins to ash. "I am beyond their mortality."

He isn't _bragging_ \- it is a fact, ascending beyond the restraint of a human body; a human heart. "Humanity, as it nurses its _own_ mortality, occasionally does draws my interest. Demanding independence yet requiring socialization to survive. Conflicting interests between fundamentally similar organizations and nations. How they are capable of cruelty, yet also compassion."

Karthus tips his head to the right again.

"Two different behaviours that cannot coexist, yet actively _do so_ inside all humans. Perhaps another may find such hypocritical existences _repulsive_. I find it interesting."

Interesting enough to bring him here. Interesting enough to let Vladimir hold his rotten hand, put something inside of his empty heart.

"Mortality and humanity foster such violence together. In that violence, there is destruction of self, and with _that_ , one becomes willing to part with their self to another. Is that the birth of compassion? _Affection?_ "

He looks deeply at Vladimir. All blood and flesh and terribly alive, the most alive a human can be.

"That is how I have considered it."


	17. return

Vladimir rests his back against Karthus' chest. The chest piece is gone. Vladimir's hair, short and remaining the same length it was when he was _elevated_ above mortal standing, is without the hood covering it. He takes one of Karthus' hands, holding him in his own, carefully.

"I'm going to have to go back sometime, you know."

There is no heartbeat between them. There is no shared breath. Still, the silence that lingers sits heavier than he's used to, potent; unnerving. It is the silence that blankets the Shadow Isles when there is no wayward soul to sing its lament; a suffocating silence that makes Vladimir lose the careful cadence of his voice for something a little more steady. Karthus doesn't move his hand from his, but he knows he's not smiling.

"My - _colleagues_ ," he tries, wholly aware of the laughter from those like Emilie and Elise if they heard him ever try something like _friends_ , "are probably wondering what happened to me. They probably think I'm dead. Elise definitely does."

He wishes Karthus could breathe. It'd make up for how he can't see his face.

"You're going to let me go, right? Even for a little while."

There's enough reason in him that says Karthus will let him go - he's not a prisoner. Brought here, certainly. But never taken, no matter how the story he wants to write may go. The part of him that feels a little cold in his beloved's arms doesn't feel right, and he's almost uncertain enough to ask again before Karthus speaks - his chest doesn't rumble with the draw of breath like a mortal would.

"Of course," he says. Vladimir is holding one of his hands, so Karthus snakes the other around his stomach, pulling him a little closer, going against his own words. But it's not a threat. "I would never hold you from your duties."

Vladimir turns his head, but doesn't look up; nestling himself against his cold, cold darling.

"I don't _want_ to," he replies, bending the fingers on Karthus' hand with one of his and tracing his knuckles with the other. "I just - know I _have_ to."

He presses his palm to his, and links their fingers together.

"I also don't know when I'd be back. And I _don't_ want you chasing after me and starting another panic."

Vladimir looks up at him.

"That'd be no good. And I'd be mad at you."

Something like a smile lingers on Karthus' cold image. "What if yearning for you is not enough? What shall I do in your absence?"

"I'm not sure," Vladimir admits, lingering for a moment before looking back down at their hands. "I think it's sweet you'll _yearn_ for me."

"I cherish your presence."

"As I, yours."

"The Mist shall linger on your person. It does not dissipate so easily. The Isles and our Choir shall follow you."

The silence fills the air once more.

"I wasn't aware it was _our_ Choir now," Vladimir admits.

Karthus draws his hand from Vladimir's. He drags it down the length of his wrist, then his arm, against his chest before finally resting around his neck, drawing him closer, wholly _possessing_ him. The intimacy catches him off guard like a hook in the cheek, and Vladimir leans back into him a little, closing his eyes.

"It has been ours since you took your place at my side," Karthus whispers close against him. His voice is low and cold, like the ice of the Mist. "And it will wish for your return, posthaste."

The arms of death are cold. And in them, he feels secure.

"I will," he says, voice just as low and quiet as his beloved, "I'll come back."


	18. closeness

**A/N:** this is for modern au.

* * *

The second time Vladimir tries to introduce Karthus to his friends, it goes a little easier. That is to say, that Karthus at _least_ doesn't disappear to Katarina DuCouteau's basement this time.

It's less of a party, more of an evening inside. The crawl of winter stretches over the city, and blankets the roads in both frost and snow. There are less bodies occupying the DuCouteau estate this evening, dedicated mostly to those in the immediate friend circle of _miss Katarina DuCouteau_ herself. Cassiopeia sits at her side; their brother is nowhere to be seen.

Emilia had taken to the sisters, leaving her plus one to the quiet, devout attention of his _own_ plus one. Vladimir had seen how Cassiopeia gave Karthus a look over from head to toe, giving Vladimir a glance that reminded him of the _disgust_ a pet owner has for its cat's recent prey.

The judgement of one sister is enough. Emilia taking up Katarina's attention is, for once, working in Vladimir's favour.

"You're sitting on my lap," he says, stretched back on the arm chair furthest from the television and coffee table. Karthus' legs are long, longer than his own, and are much more thin.

"Yes," Karthus responds, "that is my intention."

"What if I want to get up?" Vladimir asks with enough lilt to his voice to keep him charmed - it shows when Karthus smiles something simple, and leans even closer, keeping the warmth between them.

"You do not _want_ to. You have no desire to sit closer to any individual present." Karthus presses his point by bringing his legs up. He curls awkwardly into Vladimir, all bone and limbs and angles that don't fit into a seat this size, but he looks content, no matter how his legs sit.

Vladimir's response is sliding his hand underneath him, holding him from under his knees - pulling him up, keeping him there. "There's not nearly enough room on the couch, darling."

Karthus' head rests against his shoulder. "Forgive me. I feel exhaustion's touch upon me."

There's something Vladimir thinks to say. He doesn't say it immediately; he watches the motion of the room, the conversations between others blending together into an array of words that have no connection to one another. Something catches in his ear that sounds like a query regarding his posture, and the company in his lap - he doesn't care _too_ much to find the guilty.

Karthus exhales against his neck. Warm, more warm than he usually is. A hand of his curls against his chest, and he can feel Karthus' thumb stroke the fabric of his shirt.

His breathing is low. It's quiet, and he can hear it so clearly over the others.

"I like the way you talk," Vladimir murmurs, tipping his head against Karthus', cheek against hair. "It's elegant."

A beat of silence.

"Thank you." Quiet. And even quieter, "I enjoy the sound of you breathing."

Karthus' long hair brushes the flank of Vladimir's hand. He twists his wrist and takes a lock into his fingers, twirling its ends.


	19. holly

**A/N:** _institute of war au. a lot more lighthearted than any of the other chapters._

* * *

By the words of that _brat_ on the yeti, Vladimir's lane is _'way too boring'_. Frankly, he can't fathom why he'd even say such a thing.

The length of the middle lane is the shortest, a stretch of green with stone remnants that remind Vladimir of old structures scatered across the Flats. He prefers the calm of a lane he can measure - a period to plan ahead, spells slung only when his opponent draws near. Nothing close to the explosive combat in the side lanes, or traversing the deep woods to hunt monsters that don't even bleed. A hunt is hardly interesting if there's no thrill.

The child - Nunu, a name that reminds Vladimir of the slurring words _infants_ make to wail for attention - simply said nothing fun happens with him. That he sits and waits for too long to do anything.

There's a lesson to be had in patience and virtues, but he keeps it to himself. He'll allow the boy to waddle back into the thicket of woods if it spares him his fat little face from interrupting his company.

The draw of Mist stretches across the rolling green like a drawing tide - Vladimir steps around the familiar snap of defiled stone, feeling the cast of cold wind brush his heels through his boots. Karthus' hand reaches forward and grips shut once more, and Vladimir feels a weight drag him down beneath his feet, before it fades, sharp like glass in his boots.

He makes him _dance_ whenever they oppose one another. The sharp pain that runs up his leg when he steps too close to the deadly magic makes Vladimir unsteady in his knees, even when it is never as potent of a cast as it could be. It's something about proximity to the caster, or maybe crowding too far around the stone and his allies - he hasn't actually _asked_ how his Deathsinger's magic works. But he moves around each sweep of magic, and Karthus moves from the sharp sting of bloody tides that Vladimir flings his way.

In the direction of the south-east, there is a separate battle - far more different than the patient prowling that Vladimir and Karthus practise between each other. It is much more fast paced, active combat between two on two - distantly, in the corner of Vladimir's thoughts where his summoner has connected them together, he hears uncertainty in their actions; something sharp, like panic.

Caught out. An engage, or a misstep. It doesn't concern him - he can't get there in time at all. He's more of the _independent type,_ anyway.

But, he sees Karthus' attention wane from their affair -

Pulling the chained book from his hip.

Ah.

Now _that_ spell, Vladimir knows about.

Above him, magic swirls in a spire, the Song threatening to plunge down into his head, the claws of the undead seeking the last corner of his mortal thoughts. The timing is important, and when the thunderous drumming of a deep, violent requiem crashes down, it sounds more like a distant crash when submerged underwater, as his body seamlessly sinks into a pool of dark crimson. Warm - like a body of water beneath a hot sun.

The frustrated grumble of his teammates almost go unnoticed, his mind adrift the sanguine pool that surrounds him. The Song is brief enough to return to form with little fear, Vladimir adjusting to the sharp whine of that blue haired girl from Zaun coming from the joined communication.

Vladimir smoothes down the length of his trousers, then lifts his head. Karthus is staring at him. Frowning. With his arms crossed, staff horizontal under his elbow.

"What?" Vladimir tests, calling down the length of their lane. It's hard to understand what he's thinking with such distance between them, without Karthus holding him close and crooning something quiet into his ear, until -

"Oh - come on, darling, don't look at me like that -"

Karthus keeps his frown. Vladimir unconsciously takes a step closer at the same moment Karthus turns away and, silently, casts the recall spell.

"Don't look away from me -"

The silence is almost funny.

"Would you rather I had taken it and made you feel bad?"

Almost. Only a little.

" _Darling_..."

Karthus vanishes. Vladimir feels himself bite back a rueful grin, tongue between his teeth.


	20. return, pt 2

He does not wait at the shore. In his isolation, Karthus attends to what he does regardless of company - verse, contemplation, study, magic, composition. Once, he even ventured to the second island of the Isles, far from his church, just to break habit and observe the monastery.

Regrettably, the Shepherd would not speak with him.

Karthus ponders upon how _spoiled_ for conversation he has become that he would grow _restless_ in days of loneliness. He has been alone for a century before, and had planned for centuries beyond to exist with the same peace, madness and silence. Silence that the Choir could not fill - but not anything undesirable, or even _terrible_. It is fact that he had once accepted.

Vladimir's departure to Valoran was something he tried to delay. He left, and said he would return, and he will not admit that he has _sulked_ , merely mourned his lover's absence. Time is not his to keep on the Shadow Isles - he does not know how many weeks, or even _months_ it has been since Vladimir was in his company.

Karthus enjoys the stillness, the quiet. But his hands are restless. Long, inhuman fingers curl closed and open the same at his side, and when he rests them on an aged desk he drums something agitated.

Distantly, a door opens. Had he a heart, Karthus thinks it'd have stalled in his chest.

He drifts to the main chamber. The Mist rolls inside, from behind the legs of a human form, coiling with the spirits of the Choir who drift and hum through the hall. Vladimir steps inside, head aloft and grinning something bright when he looks at the lich he's taken to calling home.

Karthus lingers by the pulpit, body still. Vladimir takes long strides towards him, and he steps into the air to hold him, sweeping his waif-like form into an embrace.

"Don't look so shocked to see me," Vladimir says, holding Karthus to him close. He can feel Vladimir grin again his chest. "I told you I'd come back."

Those long, restless hands drag up Vladimir's back, holding him into his body. A smile's memory toys on Karthus, warm like a candle. "I had not doubted you, my love. I only grew tired in your absence - even I may dread your return would be postponed the longer you remained in your home nation."

Vladimir runs his hands up, holding Karthus by his jaw and cheeks. "Don't we have all the time in the world to wait for each other?"

"Had you spent even another day there, I would have arrived to steal you away."

Vladimir laughs. "They'd fight you to their last stand to keep you away from me."

"They would be my souls to claim, just to return you to me."

He pauses for a kiss - long, holding still until he feels Vladimir pull him in further, that he may press again his mouth and stay. Breath does not pass either of them, remaining close in their embrace until Vladimir's body suddenly grows heavy. He parts to glance down, noting he reaches for the floor.

He steps to his feet, boots on solid stone.

"I'm afraid you've yet to show me unlimited levitation," he notes, looking up to Karthus and leading him down, bending him a little closer. Karthus' arms remain half against him, trailing up from Vladimir's own.

Karthus smiles, serene. "I will show you, with our time together."


	21. heartbeat

Vladimir's head lays against Karthus' chest, with only the worn robes of preacher's past between him and his cold, decrepit body. Karthus hand trails down the length of his hair to the hood of his robes, pulled back and resting on his collar. Karthus does not breathe, does not stir, even on his back in a bedroom once belonging to pastors and clergymen. He doesn't like to lay down, seat himself, rest anywhere; but he does, because Vladimir asked him to join him.

"It's quiet," Vladimir murmurs, and Karthus continues to trace shapes and letters on the back of Vladimir's head.

"The Isles?" he asks.

"In here," Vladimir taps a claw against Karthus' chest, twice. Childlike, juvenile, quiet. "You don't have a heartbeat."

Karthus briefly glances down to watch him, then once more lifts his head to gaze at nothing on the dusted ceiling. "I have been without one for quite some time."

"Do you still _have_ your heart?"

"I would imagine so. I have never sustained an open wound that would have resulted in its removal." Even in death, suspended between existence and absolution , Vladimir - has nice hair. Soft. He likes brushing it. "Unless it has withered to dust inside."

Vladimir doesn't move, and returns to silence - for a passing moment.

"I could check, but I wouldn't be able to sew you back together. Not a good place for a surgery." The simplicity of his voice, with not a word out of place - his intent is as clear as ocean water. Karthus doesn't react to the absurdity at all.

"Does _your_ heart continue to beat within?"

"No," Vladimir admits. Then - "but I can make it."

"For what purpose does that possess?"

"Someone heard that I had _died_ when I went back to Noxus. Who would spread such a rumour?" Vladimir turns his head and stares up at Karthus, shaking it slowly. The hair Karthus had been holding spills from the curl he wound it into, and frames the side of his face. "So I put their hand over my chest, and made it beat. Terrified them."

He looks at Karthus as he slowly lifts himself, trailing his hand up to the one Karthus has in his hair. He guides it free, trailing a monstrous hand over his cheek, down his neck, and against his chest. He lingers.

"Listen."

Vladimir's fingers weave against the back of Karthus' own.

It's a slow beat. Something quiet, like a sound beneath waves and rocks. His heart struggles to pulse through veins filled with strange blood, even more unnatural than blood touched by a mage - but it still drums inside, a murmur that sounds like a secret. Vladimir's skin is cold, but when the heart rumbles with life, his skin almost feels warm. It keeps the unhealthy green shade. His blood is hardly human anymore.

Vladimir smiles, just a little.

"How long has it been since you've heard a man's heartbeat?" he asks.

Karthus fixates on his chest - the shape of his skin, the heat and cold that tangle together inside of him like life battling with death. Vladimir's hand drags down from Karthus', over his wrist and joining his other hand in his lap. He shifts his posture, his legs over the narrow hips of his Deathsinger, looking down at Karthus move his hand from flat against his chest to up his shoulder, fingers curled over the flank of his neck. Vladimir leans his head against his fingers, brushing them. Cold - but he appears content.

"Some time," Karthus admits, "and never so closely as you allow me."

He keeps his grin, lifting his head straight to look at him. Supporting himself on his hands when leaning forward, he cranes his neck away from Karthus' hand, welcoming the draw of it up his throat. "I allow you _many_ things, don't I? You're giving me far too much power over you."

Vladimir slides his hands up the dusted bed, lowering himself down. Once more, he takes his position where he once had laid down, nestled close to where Karthus' heart would be. Karthus' own hand finds its way to his hair once more, and he looks down at him.

"I am a man at the mercy of death," Karthus responds, "In my devotion to it, I chose to give you the same reverence."


	22. domination

**_A/N:_** _modern au, of course. i don't know how many people are gunning for canon verse karthus'... staff. warning for sexual content._

* * *

Karthus regards him with such reverence, that if Vladimir was not holding him down by the base of his neck with his thumb on his pulse, he'd take a moment to pause and admire how the ceiling's light illuminates his head.

Vladimir looks at Karthus like he's a different person - like he's something that got under his skin, something that sharpens his anger, something that disgusts him too touch and is still too pretty to break. Karthus keeps his hands at the side of his head, fingers curled - vulnerable. He watches Vladimir prepare him, hand slick and on his length. Vladimir looks up his body, to where his shirt has rode up his stomach.

"You're too thin," he murmurs, a frustration on the tip of his tongue. Karthus curls his fingers - he _loves_ the voice he takes to talk down in. "You've got no _meat_. Disappointing."

Vladimir grips, bending his fingers and pushing Karthus a little further into the mattress, and drags himself down the length of his body, over Karthus' firm, slick heat. Karthus breathes in sharply, and Vladimir regards him with little more than rehearsed disdain.

" _Behave_ yourself," he says with that low voice, moving his hips so he can grab what he _wants_ between his legs.

"You're _hard_? Over your dick getting a little bit of attention?"

Karthus is not meant to explain himself, speak when he isn't meant to - flushed, he nods, and then points with one of his hands to Vladimir's own, wrapped around his throat. Vladimir doesn't laugh, but the sound he makes resembles one.

"You _like it_ when I hold you like this? _Wonderful_." He makes a firm point with another push into his throat against the sheets, grip tightening for a moment to cut the pulse and the blood in his head.

Weakly, Karthus nods. Vladimir laughs, proper and harsh, and grips the length of him, tight enough to make him whine.

"I like that," he breathes with a sinister hiss. Vladimir leans back, pressing his hips forward against him, like he's pushing himself down on to his -

"Do you _want_ me?"

The pressure on his neck relieves. He breathes in, deep and quiet, and Vladimir chooses to then grab his jaw, taking his gaze. All reverent, adoring, admiring - everything he wants to give to Vladimir is perfectly _submissive_ , eager to offer every part of him that Vladimir wants to break. He loves the pressure on his jaw. He loves how Vladimir draws it away and smacks his face when he doesn't respond.

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"I want you to-"

Another slap. His skin, pallid and otherwise thin, is warm and glows with the starting hint of gentle red. When Karthus looks at him again, Vladimir watches him with vile disdain. "Properly. _Politely_."

The way he's meant to. "Please, _Vladimir_ , I want you to..."

Every time, he bites the inside of his lip and looks uncertain. Every time he hesitates, Vladimir grins something wicked.

"You want me to fuck you and you can't even say it!" He laughs, hand clenching around Karthus' erection, a twist to his wrist that makes his plaything tense and squirm under the weight he heaved on to him. His back arches in the direction he turned him, the same _desperate_ whine from before rolling from inside his lungs.

"I like it when you're needy," Vladimir says, and when the man below him tenses, he laughs - just a shade. The hand on his length moves up, thumb across the curve. "I like knowing I can crack you open like that. You're a pretty ghost to break."

He keeps moving his hand. Squeezing him at points, feeling Karthus' body writhe beneath him, watching his hands drop down and grab the sheets at his side, hearing his choir-made voice lose its composure from just a couple of touches - "I want to make sure you know your place. Do you?"

"I do," Karthus replies, eyes shut and shoulders hackled. He can't see him, but Vladimir pulls himself to where he wants to be, and Karthus only realizes it when his weight is a little higher up, and the warmth of his legs rests against the curve of Vladimir's behind.

"Who do you belong to?" Vladimir reaches behind himself, toying with Karthus, and his grin gets even wider when Karthus' eyes open to watch him.

"You."

"What am I to you?"

"Everything."

He leans himself back, pushing Karthus inside him. The only sign on his face of his body betraying him to urged desire is a straining grin, and that wicked smile of his alone could break Karthus' limit and send him over a beautiful edge.

He holds himself off. He rolls his head back into the sheet when Vladimir hilts him.

"Go on," Vladimir purrs, reaching for Karthus' hands and guiding them up his thighs, stopping him at his hips. "You can touch me, if you want me so much."

Mercilessly, without hesitation - Vladimir moves his body, pushing back and lifting forward to fuck himself on Karthus, who breathes something sharp and grips Vladimir's hips, pressing curved moons of his nails into his skin. Vladimir moves himself without Karthus' guidance, but still allows his lover to move him with a faint pressure, pushing down on him when he rolls his hips back.

Vladimir leans his head back, a grin on his lips while staring up at the ceiling, a languid and _salacious_ sound rolling off his tongue when Karthus finds a spot inside of him that he _likes_. He grips Karthus wrists, then grabs up his arms, bringing his head back down to grab up, up his arms, leaning forward and then grabbing his shoulders, pulling Karthus forward to sit him up - all while still moving his hips, grinding them down and taking his mouth into a hungry kiss.

Karthus obliges - desperate, groaning into his mouth, pulling Vladimir into him and feeling his hands roam into his hair and gripping it. Blond hair locks into his fingers and Vladimir clenches his hair, the ravaging desire to be controlled and the flutter of absolute pressure shooting through his insides and rolling out of his body with a jerk of his own hips. It makes Vladimir gasp a sound of his own, pulling Karthus back by his hair and squeezing his eyes shut.

His hands drag around Vladimir's waist, pushing up into him as best he can, earning another shaking cry from his beloved before Vladimir opens his eyes and stares through him, one of those hands in Karthus' hair gripping his jaw and keeping his eyes focused on him.

" _Mine_ ," he hisses, like he has to remind him, the course of possession lighting his veins like a gasoline trail. He rocks his hips into Karthus' and it pushes them back, Karthus holding himself up by shooting a hand behind himself to catch his body. " _Mine_. You're all _mine_."

Karthus wants to respond - wants to agree, wants to give himself, wants to hold out his hands and wrists and let Vladimir pull him in and take him whole, but he already has with how Vladimir fucks him into their mattress, each crash of his hips another reminder of who he loves, and who he submits to. Karthus _wants to respond_ but Vladimir's mouth is on his, an open eyes and open mouthed kiss that sloppily bites into his lip, sealed and full - it keeps his breath in his mouth before he feels the pressure in him snap, sharp and electric, a force that tenses him and he falls back on to his elbow while his hips twitch, push up into Vladimir repeatedly.

The break of rhythm makes Vladimir snarl, grimacing when he feels him and how his body's tension washes away. The hand in his hair and the hand on his jaw release Karthus and push him back down, now on his shoulders, keeping him pressed into the mattress while the haze washes over him. Even in the dizziness that recedes, Karthus watches him, how Vladimir grits his teeth and shoves himself down, grips his shoulders with a vicious ache that grips the curve of him rather than the soft of the fabric. Vladimir is not silent - he growls, hisses something like _more, more_ with the thrilling slip of _mine_ somewhere in there.

If Karthus had the energy, and the lack of discipline to serve his submission, he'd hold his hips and push Vladimir back down to fuck the climax out of him. Instead, he drags up to Vladimir's wrists, holding the back of one of his hands and pushing it on to his throat, where instantly, Vladimir's grip is an iron one.

He's close. The way he clenches around Karthus' throat and dizzies him more, the way he breathes in sharp and groans with an agonizied drag, how he rocks himself back with a desperate fury that seems to crack, and immediately he lurches forward over Karthus as his release courses out of him. It hits between them, on to Karthus' stomach, below where his shirt once was, now bunched up along Karthus' underarms.

Vladimir's head rests on Karthus' chest - forehead against his heart. Karthus feels him breathe on his chest, and feels his hands slacken and drop off his body. There's a discarded, worn shirt that they collected for laundry tucked under the pillow by Karthus' head, and Vladimir pulls it out to lay over the mess of Karthus' stomach.

He lays himself down, half on him, half above him, pulling Karthus out of him. Vladimir immediately pulls Karthus against him, hands forcibly slipping between Karthus' body and the bed sheets to cradle him close. A kiss to his temple, then another to his forehead, lingering between the two.

"You did well," Vladimir murmurs, and kisses him again. "You did well. Good job."

"Thank you," Karthus replies, voice weak but not hoarse. He leans into Vladimir's neck, rolling them on to their sides. One of Vladimir's hands strokes the back of Karthus' head, gently where he yanked on his hair.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I love you."

"You did not harm me. It was exhilarating."

"Good," Vladimir finishes, with the pressure of a smile against the top of Karthus' head. "Good, I - do you want to shower? Soon?"

Karthus runs his hand up Vladimir's back, tracing a shape over his shoulder blade. "Soon, yes. I want - to lie here, for a moment."

He lifts his head from the cradle in Vladimir's neck, and kisses him - Vladimir keeps the quiet smile when he feels Karthus' own.


	23. impolite

**A/N:** _institute of war au._

* * *

By the words of that _brat_ on the yeti, Vladimir's lane is _'way too boring'_. Frankly, he can't fathom why he'd even say such a thing.

The length of the middle lane is the shortest, a stretch of green with stone remnants that remind Vladimir of old structures scatered across the Flats. He prefers the calm of a lane he can measure - a period to plan ahead, spells slung only when his opponent draws near. Nothing close to the explosive combat in the side lanes, or traversing the deep woods to hunt monsters that don't even bleed. A hunt is hardly interesting if there's no thrill.

The child - Nunu, a name that reminds Vladimir of the slurring words _infants_ make to wail for attention - simply said nothing fun happens with him. That he sits and waits for too long to do anything.

There's a lesson to be had in patience and virtues, but he keeps it to himself. He'll allow the boy to waddle back into the thicket of woods if it spares him his fat little face from interrupting his company.

The draw of Mist stretches across the rolling green like a drawing tide - Vladimir steps around the familiar snap of defiled stone, feeling the cast of cold wind brush his heels through his boots. Karthus' hand reaches forward and grips shut once more, and Vladimir feels a weight drag him down beneath his feet, before it fades, sharp like glass in his boots.

He makes him _dance_ whenever they oppose one another. The sharp pain that runs up his leg when he steps too close to the deadly magic makes Vladimir unsteady in his knees, even when it is never as potent of a cast as it could be. It's something about proximity to the caster, or maybe crowding too far around the stone and his allies - he hasn't actually _asked_ how his Deathsinger's magic works. But he moves around each sweep of magic, and Karthus moves from the sharp sting of bloody tides that Vladimir flings his way.

In the direction of the south-east, there is a separate battle - far more different than the patient prowling that Vladimir and Karthus practise between each other. It is much more fast paced, active combat between two on two - distantly, in the corner of Vladimir's thoughts where his summoner has connected them together, he hears uncertainty in their actions; something sharp, like panic.

Caught out. An engage, or a misstep. It doesn't concern him - he can't get there in time at all. He's more of the _independent type,_ anyway.

But, he sees Karthus' attention wane from their affair -

Pulling the chained book from his hip.

Ah.

Now _that_ spell, Vladimir knows about.

Above him, magic swirls in a spire, the Song threatening to plunge down into his head, the claws of the undead seeking the last corner of his mortal thoughts. The timing is important, and when the thunderous drumming of a deep, violent requiem crashes down, it sounds more like a distant crash when submerged underwater, as his body seamlessly sinks into a pool of dark crimson. Warm - like a body of water beneath a hot sun.

The frustrated grumble of his teammates almost go unnoticed, his mind adrift the sanguine pool that surrounds him. The Song is brief enough to return to form with little fear, Vladimir adjusting to the sharp whine of that blue haired girl from Zaun coming from the joined communication.

Vladimir smoothes down the length of his trousers, then lifts his head. Karthus is staring at him. Frowning. With his arms crossed, staff horizontal under his elbow.

"What?" Vladimir tests, calling down the length of their lane. It's hard to understand what he's thinking with such distance between them, without Karthus holding him close and crooning something quiet into his ear, until -

"Oh - come on, darling, don't look at me like that -"

Karthus keeps his frown. Vladimir unconsciously takes a step closer at the same moment Karthus turns away and, silently, casts the recall spell.

"Don't look away from me -"

The silence is almost funny.

"Would you rather I had taken it and made you feel bad?"

Almost. Only a little.

" _Darling_..."

Karthus vanishes. Vladimir feels himself bite back a rueful grin, tongue between his teeth.


	24. rest

_**A/N:** modern au._

 _i was toying with the idea of this the next one as a two chapter update for valentine's day as a special treat for the readers. i'm terribly impatient and want to get more work out for them though! so i'm just dropping this here, and you'll find more coming when the 14th hits. so enjoy this right now!_

* * *

Vladimir's car hums, engine lingering to keep the low heat circulating. The passenger seat snaps back into place when Vladimir tugs on it, and then nestles into the back seat of the two door car with little difficulty.

Vladimir holds himself up with a hand on Karthus' knee. Karthus reaches to the back of his hand, thumbing over his knuckles. Vladimir watches him, fingers loose so Karthus may loop his own under them. The night surrounds them, the darkness of the car shadowing them while the day's sun sets somewhere else. There isn't much opportunity to admire a sunset in a city - a car park you don't have to pay for is the only option they have tonight.

Even in the darkness, he can see Karthus watch him.

"Lay with me," he says, leaning against the car's interior.

Vladimir obliges him. He tucks his head up underneath Karthus' chin, resting his face in the crook of his theist. He can feel him sigh against his skin, and the low beat of his pulse in his throat.

"We're going to wrinkle our clothes," Vladimir murmurs.

"You often do not harbour such concern on other occasions."

"But these are _nice_ clothes, darling." Vladimir manages to snake his arms around Karthus' waist when he's curled back against a firm car interior, but he manages, something for him to lean against. "So we could go out."

Karthus draws something shapeless between the other's shoulder blades. "And I greatly enjoyed our dining experience."

His breathing is light. Vladimir listens to the lull between each breath, the rise and fall of his chest lower on his body with every inhale and exhale. With a bit of shifting, Vladimir crawls down Karthus' torso so he may rest himself over his chest, to listen to him breathe - as well, his heartbeat.

Steady. Eerie and low. Vladimir has always loved the sound of a heart beating.

He has questions, idle ones with fleeting purpose - _are you tired? What did you eat, again? Was it enough? Do you want to drive anywhere? Do you want to kiss me?_ \- yet they skip off his tongue each time he finds the thought, closing his eyes and ignoring the pressing feeling in his chest. There's nowhere to go, no rush to reach.

There's only Karthus' heart.

Karthus hums, and it rumbles deep in his chest, a song of his that remains unfinished and unnamed - but it makes Vladimir close his eyes, tucking himself into Karthus as close he can. It isn't a comfortable fit, his legs bent and his shoes scuffing against the far wall of the car, but listening to Karthus breathe and grow his hum into murmured singing makes up for it.

"Kind of thought you wanted to crawl into the back of the car and make out like teenagers," Vladimir confesses. He feels Karthus laugh, rumbling in his ear like distant and gentle thunder, and it makes him crack a short smile.

"Nothing is preventing us from doing that," Karthus says, his hand returning to drawing lazy shapes on Vladimir's back. "However - perhaps in due time. I wish to just lay with you."

His hand drifts up to Vladimir's head, curling in the short hair on the back of his head and the fabric of the shirt collar. Vladimir lifts his head, chin on Karthus' chest and watching him, languid and longing.

"Am I crushing you?"

"Not at all, dearest."

" _You_ know that _I_ know you're probably not telling the truth."

"Would you not be able to tell, listening to my lungs?"

"Do you have to say it like that? I just like hearing you breathe."

Karthus leans forward, and kisses the bridge of Vladimir's nose lightly, almost strained to brush his lips against him from how he's curled himself against the car. Vladimir lowers his head down again, resting his ear over Karthus' heart.

"I love you," Karthus says, his hand finding the spot in Vladimir's hair again.

Vladimir exhales, closes his eyes, and turns his head into Karthus' body, warm and alive. "Love you too."


	25. dance

_**A/N:**_ _happy valentine's day!_

* * *

Vladimir reaches his hand up towards the levitating lich, who regards him with deep curiosity before taking it in his own. Vladimir curls around his cold fingers and gently leads Karthus towards him, taking several steps across the treeline's stone altars.

"A _dance?_ "

"Yes," Vladimir says, bringing his other hand up to hover near Karthus' narrow waist. "Can you come down? I don't know how to dance in the air."

A light laugh follows from Karthus, lowering down as close to the earth as he can. "It has been quite some time since I danced. For what occasion is this for?"

Vladimir drags his hand up Karthus' side, drawing him close, as close as he can hold him while accounting for the space Karthus leaves between his hanging legs and the threat of dragging them against the stone. "Returning to Noxus allowed me to actually check what day it was. Shame there's no _calendars_ hanging in your church."

Karthus allows his hand to be held aloft, his other hand reaching to rest over the curve of Vladimir's shoulder, fingers toying with the gathered fabric of Vladimir's pulled back hood. He watches Vladimir carefully, but allows his gaze to roam to the shape of Vladimir's jaw and the hood behind it, reaching his index finger over to brush at his hairline. "And what is the day?"

"Heartseeker's Day," he says, tipping his head down to brush him against his cheek, turning to kiss his knuckle while guiding him in a gentle, lazy circle. "Did you ever celebrate it? When you were - in Noxus?"

Karthus' eyes drag up towards Vladimir's own once more, allowing himself to be led in their embrace. He considers, thoughtful and thinking deep. "I do not recall celebrating it. Often, I did not possess any time to pursue romance, nor did any one take particular interest in me."

"How ridiculous," Vladimir remarks, rotating them once more to move Karthus a step back, mindful of his own steps. "You must have been _beautiful_ in life."

"I prefer the beauty I have taken in my century of unlife, Vladimir."

"I never said otherwise - only that you must have been _exceptionally_ handsome when you were in Noxus."

A ghastly smile crosses Karthus' features, leaning his face closer to Vladimir and staying in his presence. "And you possess an _exceptional_ way with your words."

He could swear to see a sly wink from Vladimir, pressed close to him and daring to press forward for a kiss. "I must have picked it up from you."

The stone of the treeline appears to glow with the reflection of a true night's moon, illuminated white among the dark flora. Overgrown grass rests between the cracked stone, caught in a stasis of neither life or death, as death's own singer is guided around the altar's platform by his lover.

The rattle of a deeply dug well echoes beneath Vladimir's boots when he steps up on the altar - he glances down to watch his step, then lifting his head to return to his beloved - holding him a touch closer when he stands on the altar. Karthus thinks they're in the west, farther down the thicket of woods that lays a distance from the old civilization's stone walkways. He doesn't really think much else, tilting his head and leaning back for a moment to watch Vladimir.

"Never do I recall spending such time in the company of another before I found you," he says. Mirroring him, Vladimir tips his own head in the opposite direction, a smile toying on his features. "It is very kind of you to court me on a day of romance."

"There isn't much for company on these islands - you are certainly the most enjoyable one to be around."

"Is that to say I am but brief company to warm your bed for the night?"

"I'm afraid so - you must think me _terribly_ heartless, to seduce the Deathsinger into a moonlight dance, only to cast him aside by dawn."

The hollow echo lingers beneath, the gentle whispers of spirits lost within coalescing around them. Karthus connects them once more, leaning close to kiss Vladimir deeply, cold lips pressed against the coy grin that finally broke on his lover's face. He remains, like catching the breath of the living, and feels the arm Vladimir extends to hold Karthus' hand gently bend, humbled and adored.

When he recedes - "A blessing that the Isles will stay beneath the moon for eternity." - and it is Vladimir who kisses him again.


	26. vocabulary

**A/N:** modern au.

Vladimir wakes early. His partner's sleep schedule leaves something to be desired.

He returns to his bedroom where Karthus remains asleep beneath a heavy comforter. Curled into himself with his back towards the room, breath as silent as Vladimir's footsteps over the carpeted floor. He rejoins him, coffee mug placed on his bedside table. (The rim turns red when you put hot water in it, painted to give the impression of cartoon blood. Elise thought it was a funny joke.)

The sheets are still warm when he returns, Karthus' back against his side while he browses his phone.

The drapes of his large bedroom window are pulled shut, casting a shade of deep red over his bedroom's interior. The golden sun tries to peer through the slip of where one curtain meets another, yet no space yields to illuminate the bedroom.

A video on Vladimir's social media hums with the sound of a video recorder, static in the back of the audio like a fan for summer heat. Vladimir is impressed when he hears Karthus shift next to him, legs moving beneath their blanket. He stays quiet, reaching over to exchange his phone for coffee - Karthus rolls with him, to wrap an arm around Vladimir's waist. The spot Vladimir's rear had been occupying in the bed is covered with his lover's tired, half-conscious body.

"Are you awake, or are you going back to sleep?" Vladimir asks, before he takes a sip.

Karthus murmurs something into his hip. He presses his mouth against him for some sort of half-kiss, and Vladimir holds his position's angle for a moment before sitting straight once more. Karthus makes it difficult to do that.

"There's coffee in the pot."

"Mn."

"Do you _want_ to get up?"

"No. Don't want to."

He looks at the top of Karthus's messy hair, his interest piqued. "You _don't_?"

The murmuring boy in his hip nods.

He thinks Karthus once told him his _magniloquent dictation_ was from the kind of books and films he took in as a child. Personally, Vladimir believes that his first word was something like _erubescent,_ and would believe him if he said so.

It's endearing. Sometimes kind of cute.

"I can bring you something if you're hungry," he tries, like prodding a sleeping poet.

Karthus lifts his head, blue eyes shut, just a little. He fixes his position buried in the crook of Vladimir's hip, consciousness slipping as easily as it came to. "I don't want anything. If you're hungry, you can go..."

Vladimir's hand rests on the back of his head, thumb running against his hair. The smile that he bites back slips through his teeth, though Karthus can't see. "Mm - I'll stay."

His body seems to slacken, tension released as Karthus nestles against him one more. Vladimir places the mug back on the table, reaching for his phone once more to return scrolling down his social media feed, hand in Karthus' hair.


	27. seasons

It rains.

Vladimir is rather thankful the roof of the church is in a decent enough condition that there is no threat of a leak, or perhaps even a dangerous collapse. Even the remnants of past water damage appear negligible, as he has made the discovery the Shadow Isles often go without rainfall. Always lingering between the period of a storm's memory and the fog that follows, warding off wayward soldiers that may stray too close to the ocean's most dense pocket where the islands cluster.

But when it does rain, the Mist recedes and sifts apart like water, and Vladimir can see the old leaves on trees a distance from a church's window, even under the moon. Rainfall chills the glass, but he doesn't seem to notice. Never seems to notice. The cold of the Isles is like a second skin to him.

"When it rains, are you stuck inside?" Vladimir asks, voice elevated to call for his wandering lich, passing down the aisles of pews and empty candles with a book aloft in front of him. "Or do you not care about going out?"

Karthus seems to weigh his answers, curling the corner of aged paper between long fingers. "Rain does not deter my desired activities, no. The Mist's potency is not weakened by rainfall - what you witness is simply a phenomenon of rainwater intercepting a spirit's already fragile physical form."

He finally turns the page, though he does also drift between two pews to wander closer to Vladimir. "It will return upon conclusion of the storm. Do you enjoy the rain?"

"I suppose." Vladimir leans up from the window's edge. "Does it ever snow? Last time I went back home, it was winter."

"I do not think snow has ever fallen upon the Isles - the waters grow cold, and the ground runs with frost, but snow - I have not seen."

Vladimir turns around, watching Karthus expectantly. "Put your book down. I want to go outside."

"I lack a parasol for your comfort, Vladimir."

"I thought you said rainfall didn't bother you."

"Yet I also know that you are far more vain than I am."

Vladimir fakes a shocked, betrayed expression that soon fades into a grin, which itself amuses Karthus enough to smile back, innocent and pleasant. "That's not _entirely_ true." He glances down over his barren outfit. "I _might_ be under dressed, however."

"What interests you outside?" Karthus inquires, hand reaching forward to cast the book shut, the page notably bookmarked with a slip of aged, stretched leather. "Do you wish to hold conversation beneath the rainfall?"

Vladimir leans back against the window's frame, his head pressing against the glass and casting his eyes up Karthus. Karthus does not lean forward and follow, and Vladimir considers he might not realize or understand the gesture. He reaches a hand up, drawing over Karthus' thin arm slowly, absent and affectionate. "I guess. I thought it'd be romantic. Do you prefer cloudy nights in graveyards, instead?"

Karthus leans himself forward when Vladimir reaches the curve of his shoulder just beneath his robes' pauldron, inquisitive and soughtful as Vladimir smiles just a touch sharper when his beloved drifts closer. "Certainly, were I in your company."

"I'll have to accompany you more often then," Vladimir replies, tilting his head - like he wants to kiss him, tempting him forward with the backdrop of rain.


	28. harbour

_**A/N:** wait i'm back!? you know it! the new skin inspired me! when i came looking to post the new chapter, i saw some drafts of mine that could be fixed up and published... keep your eyes open..._

 _lightsbane/dark waters AU. you know i'd make lightsbane match a skin of his one day :*_

* * *

It is not in Karthus' best interests to stare through his captor like an ocean's horizon, shrouded in mist. That is to say - he watches him with interest for passing moments, then distant unfocus, alike to losing your thought. The other man does not seem to notice the empty stare, instead flipping open one of the three tomes from Karthus' bag, currently spread across a table to the left of the damp hovel he has been bound in.

Or maybe he _does_ notice, and doesn't care. Or maybe he _does_ care, and is thinking of what to do. This Bilgewater mage seems the type to hide more than you suspect. Such people are very difficult to work with.

"Where did you find these?" He eventually asks, looking up at the death bound mage while tapping an open tome. Karthus offers nothing. "It was _certainly_ not on the ocean. Magic such as this does not exist among the ilk of this city."

The silence is marked by one of the armed blood mages to Karthus' right shifting her stance, knives moving against her body, with the decorative steel of her robes clattering against itself. Karthus' own pauldrons have been stripped from him, resting only in dark robes of travel - so he finds the decorations tacky.

The water magic fused to the leader's cloak stirs, like a furious tide. That takes Karthus attention for a moment again.

"I will be _relieving_ you of these tomes regardless of your answer - perhaps if you give us the detail where such dark magic was discovered," he pauses to close the book. "I would spare you long enough to bring us there."

He shrugs. Gold pauldrons glimmer in the lamp light of the cove. "But if not, I'll just dispose of you now."

Karthus finally speaks. "You will be unsuccessful in your attempt upon my life."

The other man is visibly bewildered. "You know this _how?"_

Karthus adjusts how his bound hands rest in his lap, strapped from the elbows. "You will fail; that is all. My influence of death is limitless."

He watches the man glance towards the other mages beyond Karthus; vision - even with his eyes consumed by ocean blue, there is a haze of white within the center, a pupil lost at sea. "Is it, now."

"If you require a provided example, then I request release from my bonds."

"I'm not exactly _inclined_ to release you with threats like that."

Karthus glances down at his hands. Dark purple light emits from withing his closed palms. "I see."

A sweep of a dark curse casts across the room, light snuffed from the candles like a violent wind through open windows - a sharp sound pierces the air, but no screams come, only the drop of bodies, faces contorted to shock and unprepared horror from death's touch.

"What did you _do?"_

Karthus lifts his head, staring into the darkness before him - a candle is illuminated once more, the colour of sea water. His captor stares at him over its hue. Karthus shares an equal stare of surprise.

"You _withstood_ such magic?" he asks.

"No, it's more like..." the other man looks to the ground. Karthus notes the scent of sea water is more - pugnant. "... whatever. How did you do that? What did you do?"

"I requested release to demonstrate my ability," Karthus replies, while continuing to work at the tied bonds. "I did not _require_ it, however."

Silence takes both men, as Karthus finally loosens one hand and unites his other. He smiles in the dark. Only his captor can see.

"I request the return of my tomes," Karthus says.

He is stared at by the other man, in the shadow of the remaining candle. The apprehension is inlaid with curiosity, but the man doesn't betray his caution with careless indulgence. He does move as Karthus roams the room - perhaps for the best. "What's your name?"

"Karthus," he replies, curt and clear. "Will you impart upon me _your_ name?"

Further silence. Marked with deeper confusion. Karthus stands, and returns his tomes to a bag that lays upon the table beside them, above the bodies of one of the blood mages; a body twisted and drained.

"Vladimir," the man eventually states.

"So long as you will not bring harm upon me, Vladimir, your company will be permitted."

"Why are you alright with that?"

"You understand the ability I possess. I do not believe you would risk your life a second time. As well," Karthus smiles in the dark once again. "Do you not wish to know the origins of death's magic?"

As Karthus steps over another body to search for his armour, he hears the breathing of Vladimir. It is far more calm, though not without the reason and caution. "I thought most tomes were destroyed by the Paladins for Valoran."

"Knowledge cannot eradicated by holy knights." His hand brushes a familiar groove of metal. "Do you wish to follow me? I would enjoy the guidance to the exit of Bilgewater."

He directs his smile in Vladimir's direction. His bewilderment does not falter. But he exhales.

"Fine."

"Do you mourn the loss of your company?"

Vladimir shrugs. "I didn't like most of them, anyway."


	29. fury

The sailor's boat is a wreckage at the foot of a bluff not too far from the first path that leads to the church. That is how he finds them.

The spirits had already begun to gather on his body when he stumbled into the open hall, clinging to his body like barnacle on the underside of a broken boat. They drain the life out of him, latching on and breathing him to pallid skin and narrow hands. So much, that he almost falls to his knees when the large door opens, holding on to Vladimir's ankles and sobbing.

"Please," he whispered, haunted and empty. He's dying. Vladimir can hear it before he even sees anything. "There—there are demons on these Isles. You must help me."

Vladimir keeps his hand on the wood door, and stares down at the man trembling beneath him. At first, he glances to one of the pews closest to the door, then down over his body, with disdain. By no means does he wish this man harm, now - wishing such a thing on an innocent soul holds no purpose to him. Bringing, delivering, allowing harm - that is different to a wish.

He kneels to the man. His thick black jacket is soaked with sea water and his facial hair is as unwashed as the rest of him. His skin is both thin and filthy. Vladimir tries not to grimace when the man meets his eyes - haunted by the most within, but entranced by the hope he imposes upon a potential host.

"Who are you?" Vladimir asks.

"Dasmond."

"Where are you from?"

"Demacia."

That is unfortunate.

"How did you get here?"

"Our vessel—struck one of the Lion Serpents, the beasts north of— of the Guardian Sea." The sailor runs a hand through his beard, scratching his skin beneath - or maybe trying to pull debris from himself. "It was—destroyed, instantly. I—I pulled myself to a—an escape boat, and east I sailed, until—"

"I get it," Vladimir says, pulling his hands back - and wipes them down his robes, sea water staining his claws. "You Demacians fear demons and magic, correct?"

He possibly has some stone on his person. It's how the spirits have not begun to devour his flesh, and how he still remains standing. The man nods.

Vladimir smiles. "There are no demons within our church. Come with me."

* * *

The man is dying, but is not dead. Even so - the man is also weak, and cannot stand for long. He drops against the floor, laying on his side when Vladimir brings him to a study.

"I do not wish to stay," the man whose name Vladimir does not care to remember says, touching a pocket over his chest and quietly casting the protection sign of the hand by his closes eyes when he thinks Vladimir isn't looking.

Demacians. Even when miles and lifetimes away, they still make fools of themselves.

"You're visiting the host," Vladimir says, arms folded and leaning in the doorway. "He's out for a moment. Give him time to return."

The fallen man looks to his companion with terrified curiosity, trying his best to rise from the floor - visibly dizzy and disturbed. The fog filters behind Vladimir and into the room, dense and searching. It seeks the new flesh like hungry hands, and with the white shadow casting in - it brings a dirge that only sailors remember.

Karthus appears in a shroud of Mist and soothed spirits. The man - who had curiously accepted the horror of Vladimir's curse - gazes in horror upon the lich, crawling away from his levitating body and further into the room. His body hits a desk, stacked high with books unopened, and he rattles its contents.

"What have you summoned me for, Vladimir?" Karthus asks, hands folded and without the staff.

"A visitor," he replies, looking at the dirt that has formed in his nail beds. How unfortunate. "He's a Demacian. Doesn't want to be here."

A swell of air and soul brings the cowering man into the air, and he screams, sharp and panicked. The air sweeps cold, like an anger in the song - Vladimir feels it, lifting his head to glance around. Karthus' eyes narrow, and his expression sours. A hand reaches forward and grabs the man's face, digging long, sharpened fingers into his weak flesh.

"Do not disrupt my Choir with your atrocious voice," he says, sinister. His hand grips the skin so viciously that his fingers tremble, straining to hold the petrified man in place. "Do you know of the Song? Its worship of death?"

The man's head shakes desperately in Karthus' grasp. Karthus holds him even tighter. Vladimir finds himself watching Karthus' hand, and then his expression. Tested patience. Was it a bad time? Perhaps Demacians irritate him, too.

"Even a voice most shrill may find its place among a forgiving crowd," Karthus muses, turning the man's face to the left, then the right. Examining - maybe the imprint of the soul, or however Karthus tests the mind. "Do you seek purpose among the Choir, as your life shall be forfeit to the Isles?"

"I—I don't want that! I want leave!" He begs, a hand grabbing the wrist by his face. Karthus smacks his hand away.

It must have been a really bad time.

"I do not wish to waste time on you," Karthus snarls, and the more he pushes on the man's narrow face, the more he pulls life from his eyes and open mouth as spirits are summoned - the more Vladimir watches.

Watches with a lot of interest. Personal interests. He's closed his hand and pulled it a bit closer, mouth pressed to the fist and his eyes open - wide.

The man begins to choke, on air that is there, and is not there. His grip on Karthus tightens then drops, light spilling from his eyes and mouth, until it disappears into the air. As the body drops, released from Karthus' grasp as disinterested as discarding trash, it dissipates to dust, swept through a wind that doesn't pass.

Karthus looks at Vladimir. His temperate neutralizes. The hand opens.

"Was he the only guest you welcomed?" he asks Vladimir - who only stares for a moment longer.

"Uh—yeah. Just him." Vladimir says, scratching the underside of his jaw. "You - looked irritated."

"I apologize for my behaviour - his aura simply... frustrated me. I did not enjoy his presence." Karthus drifts to Vladimir, a hand drawing up to graze a hand over his cheek, above where his own hand lies. "You appear to be in thought."

"A little." Vladimir's hand draws up, over Karthus'. "You. You look good yelling at people."

Karthus blinks.

"When you're angry."

Vladimir can't blush anymore. He thinks he would be now if he could, though. Admitting things to him is - hard.

"You should go. Yell at someone on the Isles. Or something. Like the Warden."

Karthus' expression is incredulous. And amused. "I shall take your... interests to heart."

Vladimir breaks from Karthus' touch to put his face in his hands.


	30. restore

As he traces he discoloured lines across Karthus' palm, Vladimir almost manages to forget how uncomfortable it is to sit on the old wooden pew.

Karthus' hand, all raw with rot and decay, rests in both of Vladimir's own as Karthus himself offers it forward. He stands before Vladimir, learning forward and profoundly quiet, watching his lover's hand trace the thin, deeply decayed flesh of his arm. The ashen tone of his skin is lined with branches of ugly black, where old, dried blood sits beneath the surface, heavy and thick. The magic between Vladimir's fingertips and the surface of Karthus' arm dances in a language of old code - deep knowlege from minds within minds.

It is frustrated. Vladimir drums his fingers against Karthus' wrist, whose own fingers curl out of a deeply human reaction of discomfort. Vladimir opens his eyes to look at them, ripped from the hundred hands of seeking spirits. The voices coalesce, but within the church, it is only Karthus with his concerns.

"I do not believe your magic will have its intended effect upon my wrists," he confesses, with doubt that pierces Vladimir's focus. "Do you feel anything?"

"I have to focus," Vladimir reminds him, voice flat to push away the millennia-long arguments that he hears within his mind. Like a conversation in a crowded room, or even a public place; the voices of many manage to interrupt him.

He likes to imagine it as a sea; it is large, with a blood red surface, and knowledge bobs from beneath, dense and unclear. The thought of taking a deeper meditation lifts through his mind, but Vladimir must silence his own thoughts - so he does. He has to focus on another.

His eyes burn. A skull that feels heavy.

Vladimir pushes the puffy sleeve up to Karthus' elbow, over the sharp bone and pinning the old cloth behind it. Karthus watches as his skin flushes seagreen, deep in his dead veins, before the heat retreats - and so does Vladimir's hands.

 _"Fuck!"_ Vladimir hisses, dropping his hands down again his thighs with a frustrated slap. Karthus brings his hand back towards his body, running his other hand carefully up his exposed wrist. "It's—it's difficult, I know what I'm trying to do, but doing it—"

"Do not feel as if you must explain yourself to me," Karthus says, his voice a beautiful wave of true peace that washes itself over Vladimir, whose bristled shoulders drop when he rises from the pew. "You have told me of the complex nature of your knowledge."

"It's—I know it's there, I know what I want," Vladimir continues, eyes shut tight for a moment, like forcing the anger away. "Something is telling me, you can wake it up. But then I go searching for it, and..."

Karthus nods. When Vladimir finally looks at him, his ghastly hands down to his shoulder and cheek, and he runs his thumb against Vladimir's skin. Whatever remained of the tension drifts away from him, taken by a distant tide.

"To be honest," Vladimir says, far more controlled, "I just want to know if I can wake anything up."

"If you can accomplish just a fraction of your goal, it will be a tremendous feat," Karthus replies, and Vladimir's smile is more just brief amusement.

"You're awfully supportive," he remarks, and reaches up to Karthus' hand against his cheek. It is the one with its sleeve pushes farther back, and Vladimir drags his fingers down, lightly against his skin. His flesh is uneven, and the bones he begins to feel against the surface of skin give him the thought, that he could shatter Karthus at any moment. His hand finally reaches cloth, and he touches what he can beneath it before roaming to his shoulder and matching Karthus' other hand.

Something croons in his ear, a voice older than the wards of Noxus he grew up in—he recognizes it by tone and age, but he couldn't tell anyone, let alone himself, who whispers to him. Only that it is a voice that does not surface often—but finding out who resides where is another task for another time. It tells him _throat_ , and that is the only clue he needs.

With his eyes on Karthus' own, he presses his open hand against Karthus' jugular, and thinks of the flow of blood. He thinks of crimson, and he thinks of what exists within—with deep focus, he envisions what he imagines rotten veins to look like, caverns with uneven walls and cracks in the tissue. Blood, all black and thick, shifts in these wider, far more large tunnels, and then he knows where the heart leads.

His own heart, though controlled by the dead, guides the beat. One, th-thump. Two, th-thump. Three, th-thump.

It is a union that does not last. Karthus releases his delicate hold of Vladimir and pulls himself from his lover's own, hands reaching to his throat with a visceral horror. Claws and nails grip the spot where Vladimir's hand lingered like the air burns it, and Karthus takes a sharp breath in.

Vladimir's stunned expression keeps him nearly captive as Karthus coughs. The curse of life and gift of death take time to settle, the balance disrupted; Vladimir grabs Karthus as his body drops from its levitated spot, and Karthus nearly collapses against him trying to regain focus, power, and control. He takes another breath against Vladimir, and his body trembles, pained to do so.

The breathing stops. He becomes aware that Karthus is not meant to breathe when the silence falls between them. Vladimir, with a dead heart that pounds in his chest, sits back down with Karthus against him, his hands holding him close, tight.

"Perhaps," Karthus whispers, and it is not the collective voices of a hundred souls, but the voice of one, a man who died a century ago, awoken in the darkness of a church. "It is unwise to continue your test."

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, under his breath and held with shock. Karthus opens his eyes, and the same mystic blue stares back at Vladimir, as it always does. Karthus slowly sits himself up, arms around Vladimir.

"You do not have to apologize," Karthus continues, "It—it was not an outcome you had predicted."

Vladimir reaches to his brittle hair and moves some from Karthus' face. If he doesn't move his hands, he won't know what to do with them. The gesture feels unlike him, but it comes naturally. "It wasn't, but—not knowing doesn't change anything."

"You are a man with fascinating curiosity. And I thank you for your attempts to understand my magic in ways not even I have attempted." Karthus reaches his hand to Vladimir's face once more to caress his cheek, and Vladimir's response is far more dedicated, leaning himself against his lover's hand. "You have not brought me any lasting harm."

"If I choke you again, you can curse me with something terrible," Vladimir says plainly, and Karthus quietly laughs.

"There will be no need for that, my dearest."


	31. graveyard

**A/N:** modern au.

* * *

The road that leads past the cobbled stone walls and the wrought iron gate is coloured by an orange and yellow frame of autumn leaves lingering in the trees and on the street. Wind rolls over the two of them and carries Karthus' hair over his shoulders, and he has to run a gloved hand through it to keep it measured. Vladimir watches him from the corner of his eye while he's pretending to watch leaves gather against a parked car. He smiles, slightly.

The graveyard is paved with winding stone and begins the field of stone markers almost immediately, the first row of the dead greeting the two of them when Karthus takes the first step. Above his head, the wind follows Vladimir, and he slips his arm through Karthus' own, looped together. He rests his cheek against his coat sleeve.

He doesn't know anyone here. He isn't sure anyone in his family has been buried in the city, and if he were ever invited to a burial, he believes he'd remember the location. No name catches his eye for very long, the memory of who they were left etched in stone and not his mind. Vladimir looks at the earth beneath each stone, and then, he looks at Karthus.

Karthus blinks slowly as he lingers on each name, with long, deep breaths taken when his eyes slip shut. He exhales slowly, and his mouth moves so slightly, mouthing the shape of words carved into stone. He lingers on the shorter names, and takes a breath in to sigh the longer ones. They've stopped their walk before one of the stones, and Vladimir watches him some more.

He can hear Karthus' voice beneath his breath. Vladimir looks over his shoulder to the other side of the path, and with a small tug, leads Karthus to sit down on a steel bench to their left. Karthus allows himself to be led, and returns to watching the grave.

Vladimir leans against him. The bench is cold. "Do you know them?"

Karthus shakes his head.

"What's so interesting about them, then?"

Karthus' gaze finally breaks from the grave, eyes flickering down to the stone pathway for a moment. "I am unsure. It is as if they seek my attention."

The look Vladimir gives him is incredulous. "They're calling for you?"

"Not a call, rather—" It's Karthus' turn to look troubled, his brow furrowing and his eyes squeezing shut for a moment too long. The way you'd grimace if you're pushing away a headache. "It is—as we walked past, they spoke. Attention—or acknowledgement." He opens his eyes. "Mourning."

Vladimir looks towards the grave. He can't read the name - whoever carved the tombstone printed the epitaph larger than the name, and the wind is sharp enough that he has to squint for his eyes to not dry in the unmerciful sweep of autumn chill. Father, husband, community member—the name is someone he doesn't know. Or care to know. But Karthus watches. Vladimir looks at Karthus again.

"What do you mean?" he asks, and it's the first time Karthus looks at him since they have sat themselves down before the grave. He thinks he knows - but he's always considered the mystic line between fascination and belief to be a little stronger.

"On occasion, I have seen the memory of the dead—a spirit that lingers." Karthus looks at Vladimir like he expects him to deny it, yet hopes against himself. Vladimir doesn't shake his head or stare a little harder, and it makes Karthus visibly relax his shoulders. "I can hear them. They sing."

Vladimir watches him in silence, however—a mystified gaze that looks deep within Karthus' blue eyes, like uncovering a truth that brings something together. Facts, or truths, or shapes. He doesn't disbelieve the theory of the dead communicating, but he did believe it was just an affinity, or affection, that Karthus had to old bones, dead bodies—

For a moment, Vladimir shrugs, almost unexpectedly, even to himself. "Do they help your song writing?"

Karthus suddenly smiles, good natured. "Not directly, but yes."

"Cool. Do you know anyone here personally? They talk to you often?"

When Karthus doesn't respond, Vladimir looks at him. He's watching the grave again. "I pray you do not think that I am joking, Vladimir. I am telling only the truth."

"Oh—God, darling, I know you are," Vladimir says, with his other hand reaching to hold Karthus' arm, drawing his attention back towards him. "I'm not. Trying to jole around or anything, I. I believe you."

"Do you?"

"Completely." Vladimir's grip on him is a little bit tighter. _"Completely."_

Karthus' stare is softer, like the tender muscle of a human heart left behind. Vladimir leads his hand to Karthus' and holds it, and reaches his other hand to his haunt cheek, stroking his skin once with his thumb. He sees a light that lingers in the center of his eye, something that may see past what simple earth and rock they walk upon.

The possibilities are exciting. But he keeps that fascination under his tongue, kept for another moment. Karthus leans his face into Vladimir's hand, and Vladimir has to smile to keep him assured.

"Tell me what they say," he requests, "If it's clear, that is."

Karthus curls his fingers over Vladimir's hand. "That you are a welcomed guest."


End file.
